


Consequences

by CopperBeech



Series: She Was Such A Naughty Nanny [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author is making the best of a predicament, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bookshop Sex, Coming Untouched, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discipline, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Smut, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Aziraphale derails Nanny’s shopping trip, in a pleasurable but rather domineering way. Nanny finds an edgy way to get (very) sweet revenge. If a bit of cosplay is involved, so much the better.It’s probably the closest thing to a sword you could carry down a street in the posher part of London, and she ‘s dressed for something very posh indeed.“You look ravishing, my dear. Are we going out?”“No,” Nanny says.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Series: She Was Such A Naughty Nanny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828699
Comments: 34
Kudos: 146





	Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/gifts).



> Who did ask, more or less. When I explained that _Balsamic Glaze_ probably owed a good deal to heated thoughts in the wee hours during six weeks of "No Sex, Please, We're Recuperating From Surgery," she mused about what this might mean for my readers.
> 
> Smut. It means gratuitous smut. Wall to wall, void-of-redeeming-social-value smut.
> 
> I'm serious, if unrepentant smut is not your thing, turn back now.

“Hands off, please. Or I might have to tie them.”

Aziraphale tugs meaningly at the loose ends of Nanny’s blouse bow where they dangle between her little palm-sized breasts. She’s straddling his cashmere lap on the bookshop settee, crisp black shirt spread open, camisole rucked up to her collarbones, skirt bunched above her thighs. The black stockings clipped to her suspender belt are old-fashioned silk.

He’s just batted her hand away from the crotch of her lace knickers, which he’s pushed aside for, well, research purposes. “I want to see how wet you are already. But no playing.”

He’s still a bit amazed at being the one who’s giving the commands here. It’s been millennia since Heaven was a place where he got to tell anyone _anything._ Much less what they were to do, or not do, with their corporations; unimaginable that he’d be telling anyone, Crowley least of all, how they could touch _this_ part of their corporation ( _Nanny’s wet, all right, sweet musk already smearing damply down one thigh, the narrow crotch of the knickers moist, the vivid red hair clinging to the backs of his knuckles as he makes one confirming stroke – “oh, very_ nice _, dear” – feeling her arch into it, push against him)._

But there’ve been those moments, since the world didn't end and something between them began: Crowley beneath him, raising arms over his head, wrists joined in an invitation to seize and restrain; Crowley shuddering when the angel pressed him against the wall of the flat one morning, _you’re nice if I say you are;_ gasping _no I’m not, feel how wicked I am, wanting an angel this way._ People do to their lovers what they want done to them, Aziraphale’s realized, remembering that moment at St. Beryl’s.

And today Nanny Ashtoreth descended the spiral stair from the flat above, umbrella in hand, hat perched coyly: _I haven’t been shopping for a new outfit in a while_ (they’re all miracled into existence, but _a girl likes to see the fashions, angel_ ). He’d been at the desk, glancing up over his reading glasses to take in the severe black skirt and jacket, the rosette of floppy bow at her collar.

“Really, dear?” he’d teased. “Aren’t you being a bit extravagant? You’d barely gotten, what, six years of daily wear out of that?”

“Says the fusty creature whose wardrobe belongs with the National Trust.”

“I merely express astonishment that _you_ would be content with the same clothes for so long.” He’d risen from the desk then, putting the glasses aside: “Though I will say, I never had the chance to see the _entire_ ensemble. Much as I wanted to.”

“Used to catch you looking.”

“A glimpse of ankle when you were taking Warlock around the rockery. I confess to wondering about what I couldn’t see… Oughtn’t I to get a look before you go adopting some faddish silliness?”

And then there’s the back and forth, the currency of a friendship that’s become something more, _I’ll show you fusty, dear_ and _I’ll show you something that’s not_ until it’s turned into this: his tongue moving between the tiny, puffy-nippled breasts while he holds her wrists away from her plump sex, a surprisingly soft swell on a frame that’s mostly bones and angles, the mound padded just enough to yield deliciously when it’s rubbed. But not yet.

The silky skin of her nipple puckers under his tongue and he tightens his grip at the long, low moan, feeling her hips buck. “That’s it, darling,” he murmurs as he moves to the other. “I know how sensitive these are. I want you to have the first one just from this, now while you’re so beautifully excited.” Lips and tongue tease, feathery, threatening to pull away, then fasten again for a slow, rhythmic suck. “Promise to be very good and I’ll use my hand on the other.” The words are blurred because he doesn’t quite take his mouth away, so that the breath of his speech ghosts over the moist little peak.

“Don’t fucking _stop,_ angel.”

“Will you be good?”

“ ‘M not good.”

“No, you’re certainly not. What do we do with naughty nannies?” He pinches the other nipple tight, tugging a little. “This?”

“Angel, _ow – “_ it doesn’t sound entirely like pain.

“Shall I do that again?”

“Don’t _stop – “_

“Perhaps we can allow this.” The epicure tongue goes back to work, the fingers roll the sweet little knot of flesh back and forth, rub over the tip, pull gently. Nanny’s hair has come out of its pins, and it’s tumbling over the shoulders of the open shirt, tickling his cheeks. She’s trying to work herself forward on his lap, to find some sort of purchase, but his free hand holds her hipbone with casual strength, _you’re not going anywhere._ Her little breast almost fits entirely into his mouth when he opens wider to tongue his way over all of it, teasing around the edges of the nipple and then pulling away again. Little kisses peppered over the whole soft roundness, grazing over the tight tip; she’s wriggling, trying to push her nipple between his lips, soft sobs sounding far back in her throat.

“Let me see what I’ve done,” he says as he lifts his head away, “you’re not to move,” and she goes still – almost; she can’t quiet the little shivers – while he reaches between her legs again, feels the twist of soaked knickers, the slicked curls. “That’s going to feel very good later, dear,” he says approvingly, and returns to rubbing her nipple, fingers slippery with her own wetness. A pause to sample the flavour. “Really exquisite. You’re close, aren’t you?”

“ _Please – “_

One hand goes under her spare _croupe,_ supports her hips as they rock, feeling the urgency as his mouth and his other hand go back to work. It’s one long wail now, rising and falling, her body twisting this way and that with the need for release, until he’s circling one tight nipple with his thumb while he cups that breast in his palm, taking the other into his mouth, hard flicks of his tongue against the swollen nub, steady, a slow metre that makes her pant in rhythm until she keens on a high note and clamps her thighs against his, finally gasping, pulling away, _too much, too much._

His hand steals down between her legs as her breathing slows. She’s flooded, swollen, the little peak of her clit a sweet shape to outline through the knickers, making her hiss and jerk and shake her head in a movement that doesn’t exactly convey _no._ He pulls the knickers entirely aside, palming her slick crotch.

“Has Nanny got something here for me?” he asks.

Crowley growls.

* * *

“Thought you’d like to see my new kit.”

“Oh, my. Nanny’s visiting again so soon?”

It’s her voice that gives her away, because he’s got his back to the staircase, shuffling books around the shelves behind his desk, and it’s a moment before he turns, tips his head forward to angle his gaze over the half-moon glasses, and does the kind of double-take that only Aziraphale can. Six thousand years of life experience haven’t robbed him of that capacity for open-mouthed astonishment. “My _dear.”_

Her hair’s in a fiery, artfully chaotic mass on top of her head, and the pale dove-grey of her smart double-breasted blazer is only a few shades darker than the blinding white shirt and stock beneath it. There’s a little silver coiled-snake brooch pinned through the loose knot at her throat. Crowley must have seen Michael as she chooses to appear in this era – perhaps on his way into Heaven, or leaving it in a final whiff of Hellfire.

Michael favours no-nonsense slacks and boots, but Nanny is Nanny. The matching pencil skirt comes just below her knees, and he can’t imagine how she descends the stairs so ably in those heels, given Crowley can’t walk half a block without slewing into another dimension. But he’s always suspected it’s an affectation.

The sight causes far more commotion in his trousers than anything should that reminds him of Michael.

Just to underline the resemblance, she’s resumed carrying her umbrella, though the colour’s shifted to match the jacket, the ferrule gleaming silver. It’s probably the closest thing to a sword you could carry down a street in the posher part of London, and she ‘s dressed for something very posh indeed.

“You look ravishing, my dear. Are we going out?”

“No,” Nanny says.

The trousers are snugger by the moment. A discreet snap manages the lock and the Closed sign.

“You see,” she continues as if she hadn’t noticed the gesture, clicking closer across the parquet and lifting his chin a little with the umbrella crook, “you were _very_ wicked to Nanny the other day. She didn’t get out to the shops at all. Both ended up needing a bath. Nanny’s been thinking about your punishment.”

Aziraphale feels as if the light pressure under his chin is lifting him entirely off the ground. He remembers an infinity of occasions in the past when something like _Crowley, do stop arsing about!_ rose to his lips, and realizes it’s the last thing he wants to say.

“And you made a _threat._ Don’t you agree there should be some consequences?”

Nanny seems to be a very _strict_ nanny today.

“You – ah – may be right,” he breathes, almost inaudibly. It occurs to him that he’s still holding a copy of _The Closet Of Sir Kenelm Digbie, Opened,_ in his right hand and reaches back to drop it blindly back on the shelf. “Yes.”

“Yes, _what?”_

“Yes – ah – Nanny.”

He’d be lying – not that he’d ever lie, well, except to various archangels and, oh yes, the Almighty Herself – if he pretended he’d never, in those six years at the Dowlings', imagined what it would be like to have Nanny’s _stern voice_ directed at him.

“Let me see your hands.” When he holds them out she inspects them, the way she used to examine Warlock’s to see if he’d washed them properly, and the trace of one dark, glossy nail over his palm does something final and hopelessly obvious to the hang of his trousers. Nanny reaches inside her jacket and extracts a ripple of burgundy, with a flourish like the Amazing Mister Fell removing a scarf from some child’s ear: the length of georgette that tied the collar of her old outfit.

“Reach round the column,” she says, nodding to indicate the one nearest his desk, and after he takes a moment and a deep breath to process what she’s getting at: “Don’t dawdle.”

The fabric goes twice around his wrists before she knots it, and there’s enough left to wrap around his thumbs, knot again, and finish with a neat bow: she is Nanny, after all. They both know that he could pull it apart like so much wet paper, but he pretends to be giving a futile little tug, and… Oh.

Crowley’s slipped in a stealthy miracle. The soft georgette cloth is as unyielding as the chains back in the Bastille; nothing short of another miracle is going to set him loose. He’s not sure where this is going – though several ideas occur – but Nanny simply steps away, removes her smoked glasses, and admires her handiwork with yellow eyes a bit more slitted than usual, like a cat’s on sighting a tempting bird.

“The punishment should fit the crime,” she says. “It’s in _all_ the most up-to-date books. So we shan’t be doing any paddling. And one can’t imagine it would be a penance for you to write lines.”

She takes the pin out of the snowy stock, turns to set it on the desk behind her.

“Nanny quite enjoys touching herself, and you wouldn’t let her. You _restrained_ her.”

She hangs the jacket over the back of his Queen Anne chair.

“So now you’re going to watch. And this time, _you_ don’t get to touch.”

His favourite fountain pen rolls over the blotter and off onto the parquet as she hikes herself up to sit on the desk edge, neat ankles crossed, barely a yard and an impassable gulf away.

“You were _so curious_ about what Nanny wears underneath. Would you like to see?”

His mouth’s dry, and he nods.

The stock comes away slowly, the crepe fabric whispering as she loosens the knot, unwinds each end in turn, revealing her long throat, the dip of her clavicles. Male or female, Crowley’s got a Milky-Way spray of light freckles over the shoulders and upper chest, and a few are just visible in the strong daylight from the oculus overhead. She undoes the top pearl button. He can see the shadows of peaked nipples prodding against the thin fabric; she follows his gaze and runs a thumb over one.

“You’re quite right, y’know. Especially sensitive in this form. You do deserve praise for being a quick study. It’s one of the reasons you’re Nanny’s favourite.”

She pinches the other nipple through the cloth. It hardens a little more, just enough to notice.

“And it is pleasant to take one’s time.”

The pearl buttons pop through the buttonholes one by one, the black varnish on her nails a vivid contrast. There’s a white camisole underneath, flimsy charmeuse silk with thin spaghetti straps, and she rakes the nails of one hand over each breast in turn, hissing a little as they pass over the tightening nipples.

“Let the heat build up, hm?”

He can almost feel them against his lips, how they’d swell and slide under his tongue, but he’s not getting any closer than this, unless he cheats and spoils the game. He’s leaving damp spots in his pants, his cock’s pleading with him to touch her until all he can feel is need, and he wants more of it.

She shrugs off one sleeve, letting the shirt puddle on the blotter behind her, still trailing from the other wrist. Hitches the camisole out of her skirt far enough to let her reach beneath it, leaving him to imagine how she’s rolling the nipples one after the other between her fingers, pinching and pulling them until they’re little Royal cherries pressing against the glossy cloth. He thinks of biting them gently through it. She brings a finger and thumb to her mouth, licks them, slides her hand back out of view. Her breathing’s gotten a little jagged. After a moment she pushes the camisole up so that he can see her teasing herself with moist fingertips. She’s rubbed her nipples to a dark, almost angry russet, and the curve of her small breasts is barely a shadow.

“So many different ways you can make them feel,” she murmurs, shaking the other sleeve off her wrist. It seems to surprise even her a little when she drags the lace cuff across both breasts: there’s a sharp little intake of breath, the long hiss that he’s learned means Crowley’s not altogether in control. She shivers a little, masters herself again.

“You made Nanny’s knickers so frightfully wet and messy the other day. D’ye want to see what’s under her skirt now?”

He nods. The stockings are white. She leans back on one elbow to hike the narrow skirt up her thighs; the catches of the suspender belt, also white, are ornamented with little pearls, like the shirt buttons. She’s got no knickers on at all, and the flame of red hair where he expected to see them doesn’t quite conceal a pout of soft pink. His legs go a little shaky; he’s not moving more than a few inches from this column, but they haven’t gotten the memo, and want to close the distance. The ridiculous thought flashes through his mind that it’s a good thing she’s sitting on the blotter.

There’s just enough room for her to scoot back on the desk, lift one leg, plant the spike heel on the green baize. Propping on one elbow, she runs the other hand over the ginger curls, ruffling them, parting them. “D’ye want to see me touch it?” she asks.

“ _”Please.”_ It’s the first word he’s uttered.

“Please. _What?_ ”

“Please, Nanny.”

A black-nailed forefinger dips down to the very back of the soft pink crease, strokes up between the delicate lips to find the peak at its other end, flicks it softly.

“What do you think? Shall we see how wet Nanny's gotten? You always like to know.”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer this time, slips two fingers inside; spreads herself just enough to show that she’s glistening, a thread of fluid following one finger as she pulls it away. She strokes up one darkening lip and then the other, teasing, hissing again a little as she passes over the swelling nubbin of her clit without pausing. He loses count of how many times she repeats the movements, the spare hips starting to rock softly against the desktop.

He’s aching to touch, to taste, to pull her hand away and see to her himself, and it’s inexplicable how much pleasure there is in simply letting that ache be. In a long lifetime of being expected to _do something about it,_ whatever _it_ was, he’s never imagined how freeing it could be to have that option lifted away. There’s nothing to do but experience his own fierce arousal, a heady succession of waves that leaves him a little drunk, a little giddy.

“Would you like to know if I – ah – did this at night? At the Dowlings’? Once the little Great Beast was big enough for his own room?”

“I – yes. Did you?”

“Yes, _what?”_

But his answer’s swallowed up in a long moan as she decides it’s time to plunge those two busy fingers inside her, hook them over the little bulge of desire at the roof of her cunt that he can imagine so clearly. She’s always tight and puffy by this time, and if he can coax a second or third orgasm out of her, she’ll gush from that spot, a sweet elixir entirely different from the juices smeared down her thigh now. Her thumb’s on her clit as she works herself. He’s not even sure what’s happening in his own trousers, lost in the sight.

“Tell me you want me to finish.”

“Dear God. Please.”

“Sod bringin’ _Her_ into it.”

He notices Nanny’s stern demeanor has slipped a bit.

She presses her mound with the heel of her palm – he can just see she’s biting her lip with a short, sharklike fang – hikes up a little higher on her other arm, palm pressed into the desktop, shaking a little; pushes into herself a half dozen times, stops, bears down on her mound again with her fingers still inside, rocks back and forth four or five times more, stops, and his own orgasm's lost, almost unnoticed in the rapture of watching her face as her eyelids drop and her mouth forms an O of transcendence. The fiery curls are half undone, stuck to her temples with sweat where they've escaped the pins.

He’s vaguely aware of a snap, of the knots falling apart at his wrists. He must have closed his eyes briefly, and when he hears her voice again it seems a long way away.

“If you think you’ve learned to behave properly, Nanny’ll take you to your room now.”

* * *

“I almost imagined you _were_ going to give me a swishing, you know. Very _Tom Brown’s Schooldays._ Though Dr. Arnold wouldn’t have had the same flair.”

“I never, angel. Nothin’ that’d really _hurt_. Not dressed like that, anyway. I know what bastards they were to you up there.”

Nanny’s left the building for the moment, and it’s his familiar serpent wrapped around him as if those long limbs are actually boneless coils, earning his title. Lips tickle his ear as they speak, but he doesn’t care to move away.

“I must say, I’ll never think of Michael as quite so formidable again.”

Crowley snorts. “ ‘Sides, you weren’t all _that_ wicked.”

“Dear me. I suppose I must try harder.”

“Angel?”

“Well, as you say. Look at me, after all. Horrid little liar, slid my work off on a demon for centuries, thwarted the Great Plan, in bed with the Great Adversary of the Earthly plane… don’t you agree there should be consequences?”

That little growl again behind him that means _you’re for it,_ in all the best ways.

“”P’raps so, Angel.” But the kiss on his ear is very gentle.

“I’ll ask Nanny what she recommends.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the first time that I've imagined there was a bit of the dominatrix in Michael, but I never thought of Crowley borrowing the idea before. At least, not for himself.
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Fanart and podfic always welcome.
> 
> Come bother me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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